Seams
by Unfortunate Fates
Summary: "That summer is full of long, hazy days and record-breaking heat and lame parties with cheap alcohol that make her blood curl.  They don't talk much about things that matter.  Instead, they fill silences with promises they know will be broken."  Quick


**A/N: I wrote another one. Will I ever write Quick that isn't angsty? Doubtful. I've actually been working on this over the span of a couple of months, jotting down a couple of lines whenever I could. This actually inspired the short oneshot I wrote (On the Relativity of Speed), but I posted that one as soon as it was finished. Long story short (no pun intended), I miss Quick like crazy, and not only do I miss Quick, I miss Quinn. I mean, Season 1 was fantastic for her! She went through so much development. Then...not so much. Anyways, this was just something that kept haunting me until it was finished.**

**As far as the timeline is concerned, it's a bit AU after season 1. Or, more specifically, it takes the events of season 1 and twits them a bit. So, whatever floats your boat, I guess.**

**Finally, I'd love to her any feedback about what you liked, didn't like, and would've changed if you'd been the one writing. I hope you enjoy!  
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**Disclaimer: Glee isn't mine.  
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It's love.

It has to be love.

If it isn't love, it's wrong and awful and everything she shouldn't be involved in (again). If it isn't love, it taunts her and teases her and breaks her heart over and over for no reason other than to be malicious. If it isn't love, he means nothing.

If there isn't love behind it all, her life will never be the same.

But how can it not be?

She knows his favorite movie and the exact color of his eyes and she can talk to him for hours and hours and hours on end.

But that isn't love.

She carried his child for nine long months, but that isn't love either.

That tingly feeling she gets in her spine when she sees him? The way she'd be perfectly happy to lie in his arms forever? The fact that for just a few fleeting moments she put him ahead of her own happiness?

Yes, that's love.

She has herself convinced that what they have is forever.

If it isn't love, who will she be?

Xxx

He's a screw up. He's an idiot. He's a freaking Lima Loser, for crying out loud. Why is she still here? She's getting out of this town, he knows it, and he won't stand in her way.

Yeah, it hurts to know that she'll go eventually, but he's sure he'll get over it. Live in the moment, or whatever. Right?

All he asks is that she doesn't forget him. That one day she'll look back on a photo album with her kids and say with a smile, "That's Puck. I loved him."

Is it really all that much?

Xxx

She's smiling into the kiss but he isn't sure if he wants to smile back.

The air is sticky with summer humidity and his shirt is plastered against his back, and he knows he should be thinking _QuinnQuinnQuinn_ but for some reason he's hyper-aware of the scent of her perfume and the way the lumpy mattress is digging into his spine and he starts work tomorrow so he needs to make sure he has his uniform.

It's enough to terrify him.

If it isn't really, truly love, then what's there to stop them from falling apart at the seams?

Xxx

That summer is full of long, hazy days and record-breaking heat and lame parties with cheap alcohol that make her blood curl. They don't talk much about things that matter.

Instead, they fill silences with promises they know will be broken.

It'll never be enough for either of them, but they hold on with a vicious desperation that people their age shouldn't possess.

They can't lose each other.

It's love.

Xxx

On the first day of school they walk in holding hands, heads held high in a silent agreement to pretend together. It doesn't matter that no one knows what they know. They still need to convince themselves what they have is forever.

It should've been their first clue that something was wrong.

He might not be the quarterback, but Puck is still a jock, and she hasn't been even looked at funny the entire day. It's one more reason to stay with him. It's one more reason to be in love.

It's one more way to justify her feelings for him, even if she's justifying feelings that aren't as strong as they should be for all the wrong reasons.

She cares for him, she really does. He makes her feel safer and when he smiles her insides turn around. She just wonders if all of that is enough.

Forever is a long time to be with someone you don't truly want to be with.

Xxx

When they walk into Glee on the first day of rehearsals, people don't look particularly shocked to see that they're together. They considered it an inevitability.

He can't help but feel like it shouldn't be this way. He can't help but wish they could be spontaneous or bold or even full of joy. They're none of those things. They're meant to be.

He's starting to feel like maybe he doesn't want to be meant to be. He wants _more_.

Xxx

They're in her room with the door wide open (he doesn't actually blame her mom for that request) and they're just lying together. He's playing with her hair, admiring the way it seems to glow when the light from the sunset in her window hits it. The whole room is tinged orange and red, and he finds that sunrises are overrated when compared to this.

She sighs, her breath hitting his shoulder like butterfly wings. There are so many words on the tip of her tongue.

_What are we doing? Why are we still together? What if this isn't forever?_

She chooses to say nothing. It's easier this way, she thinks. A small smile graces her lips, and it feels fake, but she pretends. She pretends they still belong, and she believes it for the time being.

If she doesn't, she knows they'll fall apart.

Xxx

Quinn Fabray is anything but stupid. She makes good grades in rigorous classes and she _knows_ she's intellectual. She puts pieces together easily and manipulates people without breaking a sweat. She's smart enough to know that this won't last.

She's also smart enough to know how to convince herself it will.

Xxx

"Are you doing anything Friday night?" he asks her over the phone, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

"Yeah, sorry," she tells him, focusing on sounding as sincere as possible (she has plenty of practice). She doesn't know why she says it, but something possesses her to add, "I'll be gone all weekend."

It makes her feel sick to her stomach, how easy it is to lie to him.

"Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow, then, I guess." He doesn't sound all that surprised.

"Yeah. Bye." It never used to be awkward between the two of them.

"Bye."

The dial tone blares in her ear, but she just stares at the phone in her hand, wishing there was a way to know why she's doing the things she is.

That night, she prays for something, anything, to help her love him again.

Xxx

October passes in a blur. All she knows it that it's easier to move through numbly than to hurt, and it's easier to pretend than face reality. Sometimes she can't tell the difference. Then, she gets scared.

But what choice do they have? They have to keep moving. They can't let life leave them behind.

Which is how she ends up at a Halloween party at Santana's dressed as a Barbie (Brittany's idea, ironically). She walks in with Puck, rolling her eyes at some joke he heard the other day. He isn't wearing a costume, unsurprisingly. _'Why would I dress up as someone else when I'm already this awesome?'_

She really and truly laughed when he told her that, and the rush of emotions gave her hope. Maybe they weren't so lost after all. Maybe they aren't losing each other. But even she knows desperation when it slaps her in the face.

Someone hands her a tacky plastic cup full of something that smells absolutely vile and she takes a hesitant sip, nearly gagging. There's no way she's drinking the rest of this. Disgusted, she pours it into a nearby potted plant.

"Hey Q, loosen up will ya?" asks a clearly intoxicated Santana, sidling up to her. Quinn just shakes her head, wincing as the Latina girl grabs her arm so tightly she's sure it will bruise. (This is bad, this is very bad. Santana's alcohol tolerance is through the roof.)

"I can't, Santana, okay?" she tells her angrily, fighting tears, and the fact that she's fighting tears angers her all the more.

"Don't be such a prude, Quinnie," she retorts, and throws her head back in drunken laughter at her own joke. Santana seems completely oblivious to Quinn's inner turmoil, and for that she's grateful.

"I won't, okay? Just let go of me and go find Britt or something." She fights to keep her voice calm, gently prying away the other girl's fingers from her skin. Sure enough, an imprint is left, angry and red where the nails nearly pierced the skin.

And suddenly Santana is in tears. Quinn mutters under her breath; she'd forgotten how Santana can get after a little alcohol invades her system. "No one ever wants to talk to me! Puck blew me off, Finn ran away, Berry practically spit in my face, Britt's freaking ignoring me for a c-cripple, and now you're trying to leave me alone again! It's not my fault I'm a bitch! People just need to learn to deal," she hiccups hysterically. Quinn takes this opportunity to back away sadly.

She hates seeing her friend torn up like this. Even if they were never truly close.

She grabs a couple of wine coolers, downs them, and wakes up in the morning with a hangover so wicked she feels a jolt of fear before the night comes back to her and she feels the space beside her. It's cold, thankfully.

She can't explain her sudden disappointment.

Xxx

It's nearly Christmas and he knows he has to do something. They aren't the most open couple ever, but lately it's felt like something is...wrong. Or missing. Or something. Because it never used to be like this.

He holds her hand because it's expected. He kisses her automatically. When he sees her on the opposite end of the room he doesn't feel an urge to go to her. And he can't help but feel it's his fault everything is all screwed up.

He has to fix this.

It's love.

Xxx

"Wanna get laid at my place?" she asks without preamble. Her nails are long, sharp, and red; such a contrast to the sweet pink he's used to seeing.

"I have a girlfriend," he replies tersely, walking in the opposite direction with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

She follows him easily. "Since when do you refuse getting it on with _me_? And since when has having a girlfriend stopped you?"

He sighs heavily. "Santana, I can't deal with this right now."

She mutters something about him being whipped, but he doesn't care. Right now, he's feeling hope. Two years ago he thought it was love, but he sexted Santana anyways. Now, he isn't sure what they have, but it's enough to get rid of any desires.

And that's all that matters. It's enough.

Xxx

He's either brilliant or he's a complete and total idiot. But the gift is already wrapped and he gave it to her (though he's sure she hasn't opened it yet) and of course he would be having second thoughts _now_.

He's desperate. She's breaking his heart and she doesn't even know it. He just hopes that all of this is worth the risk he's taking.

This has the potential to be one of his worst mistakes. Ever. And he's messed up a lot. He hopes it's worth it to try and win her back (he just wonders when he lost her).

Oh God, he hopes it's worth it.

Xxx

He gets her gift. It's a new game for his X-Box. Sure, he told her he wanted it, but it makes him feel like even more of an idiot. He wishes he could take it all back.

At the same time, he wouldn't take it back for the world.

He waits for her to call. And waits. And waits. And waits.

Finally, he gives up. Phone shaking in his hand, he dials her number (he's known it by heart for a few years now. It's the only one he knows besides his mom's and his sister's). His thumb hovers over the call button.

Closing his eyes briefly to steady himself, he presses firmly and lifts the phone to his ear. It rings once, twice, three times. He holds his breath only to release it in a gasp. His stomach is twisting in knots and he doesn't think he's been this scared…ever. If you don't count the last time he was in a situation like this with her.

"Hello?" asks a melodic voice. He knows she wouldn't have answered if her caller ID still worked.

"It's me."

A pause. "Oh. Hi, Puck." Her voice catches. She's been crying.

"Did you get my, um, gift?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth he feels like an idiot. Of course she got it, he knows she did. He really wants to know her reaction.

Too bad he's too much of a coward to ask straight out. He starts pacing, waiting for her answer.

Step. "Yes. Thank you." Step. It's still there. The catch in her voice, the thickness of the words.

Step. "Well, what'd you think?" Step. He shoves his hands in his pockets, holding the phone between his head and shoulder.

"I don't know what to think, Puck. What gives you the right?" her voice is increasing in volume and this is the exact reaction he was hoping he wouldn't get, "What gives you the right to ask for pictures of my daughter-"

"Our daughter," he interjects.

"I don't care." Her voice is low now, deadly, "I don't care what you _think,_ Puck. What gives you the right to send me a _scrapbook_ of pictures of Beth? She isn't ours anymore, in case you hadn't noticed." She always does that. She twists words and makes him sound mentally deficient, but he's not falling for it. Not this time.

"We can't just pretend she doesn't exist, _Quinn_," he spits her name venomously, "We can't just act like she never happened."

His paces turn to stomps and he's being so loud, pounding his feet into the ground, but he can't pound hard enough. He wishes he could punch something, or someone. Anything to get rid of this burning anger.

"I think we managed it pretty well, actually, and it's not like you were trying to hold on to her, either. So don't you dare turn this on _me_."

He swears under his breath, not really caring if she hears or not. He screwed up, and he screwed up bad. For some reason, though, he doesn't want to fix it. It feels too good to let accusations rip from his throat. He's been holding it all in for way too long to avoid an explosion.

"Well I'm sorry for trying to figure out what the hell we're even doing! I feel like I don't even know who you are anymore."

She sniffles, but for once hearing her cry doesn't make his heart pang the way it should. "I can't deal with this right now, Puck." She draws a long, shaking breath. "I think we should take a break."

"I couldn't agree more," he sneers (the perfect contrast to her hesitant suggestion), hanging up and turning his phone off. Once he's sure it won't hop off of the table, he pivots on his heel and punches the wall behind him. It hurts and his fist is throbbing, but he couldn't care less. He needs to _feel_ this anger. He needs to get it out _now_, before his sister gets home from whatever kid party she's at.

And he needs to reassure himself that he's angry with _her_. Because with every second that passes, the guilt is growing and reality is hitting him all at once.

They were supposed to be forever.

It was love.

And it's his fault that they're starting to doubt it all.

Xxx

It's been a week and she's miserable.

His vicious words are running through her head over and over, like some sick form of punishment. His gift managed to bring up all of the repressed emotions they'd both been hiding (because it wasn't just her) and the fight had been monumental in its simplicity.

_I don't even know who you are anymore._

It's not what people say when they're in love, that much she knows. This is exactly why she'd been ignoring that pull away from him. It's why she'd smiled when she wanted to cry.

It's why they hadn't talked about any of it. Until now.

He must have known. She can't help but hate him because he must have known that the scrapbook was practically an ultimatum. Another tear slips down her cheek. He _must_ have known.

Is this it, then? Is this the end for them?

She can't explain it, but she hopes not for the sake of her sanity. The last few months have been spent hoping for something better, but settling for anything she could get. They've tread a fine line for a long time now. It only makes sense that Puck would try to cross it one way or the other.

She just wishes his way were a little less painful.

She'd been confused when she'd unwrapped the small, unassuming booklet. The front had just read _For Quinn_, and her interest had been piqued. She'd barely recognized Beth at first. She was so _big_. Tears clouded her vision, and it took her several minutes just to collect herself enough to turn the page.

There they were: pictures upon pictures of the girl who'd turned her life upside down. Laughing while her hair fell in dark blonde, short ringlets. Looking up inquisitively with startling green eyes. Reaching for her _mother_ (the word stings, but she uses it anyways) with small, delicate hands.

As she flips again, she sees a picture in which the little girl looks absolutely murderous, and her expression is so much like her father's that Quinn gasps. She has to stop herself from crying and laughing at the same time because it's so comical yet so heartbreaking.

Yes, this is love.

Xxx

The next time they speak, they're both confused. There's one day left of this Winter Break from hell and she's determined to talk things out whether he wants to or not. She wants to call him, but she can't do it. She can't give either of them the choice of hanging up when things are too much. She isn't sure if it's because she thinks she'll hang up or because he will.

On the way to his house, her hands are shaking, knuckles white as she grips the steering wheel. She won't let herself turn around. The sky is blue and the sun is shining behind a smattering of gray. The day is altogether too beautiful for her mood.

When he opens the door, her heart is pounding (can he hear it?). His expression gives nothing away. He just steps aside, giving silent consent. He'll listen.

She sits on the oversized, brown couch that's standing on its last legs, trying to figure out what to say. He's made it clear he isn't taking the initiative.

"She looks just like you," she begins, voice hoarse. She hasn't spoken much in the last few days. She's frustrated to find tears already in her eyes, but she's not surprised.

"I always thought she looked like a mini-Fabray." He cracks a smile, and she smiles back tightly.

"That picture just reminded me of you. It was just really hard for me to-" she shudders a bit before continuing, "to see those pictures."

"Yeah," he agrees, because what else can he say?

"I don't want to break up with you," she begins slowly, "But I don't want to be in a fake relationship, either. I've had enough lies in my life without adding this one."

"You calling me a liar?" he asks angrily, eyes narrowed. He looks truly terrifying, but he doesn't scare her. Not anymore. Not when she knows what it's really like to be afraid.

"No." A heavy pause. She knows she doesn't have a choice, but the words still sting coming from her mouth. "I'm calling myself one." She doesn't humble herself for just anyone.

"What-" he starts to ask. She cuts him off smoothly.

"I should've spoken up. I should've told you that for me, it wasn't the same anymore. I should've said something." This is hard. It's really hard.

"Yeah, well did you ever think it wasn't just you?"

"Wait, you…really?" Her eyebrows knit together.

He nods.

She speaks slowly, disbelief coloring her voice. "We're such idiots. I don't know how we ever expected this to work."

Before the words leave her mouth, she knows the answer. She knows why they lied and kept secrets and tried to keep each other in the dark. She knows why she and he both thought it would all work out in the end.

He shrugs impassively, but she can see it in his eyes. He's come to the same conclusion she has. They don't fit perfectly together. But they're a thousand times worse apart.

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to address this monumental thing in front of them. She doesn't want to have to explain her sudden epiphany out loud, where he can rip her to shreds.

So she doesn't. She pastes on a close-lipped smile and tries to tell him how she feels without words.

"God, Quinn. What happened to us?" Her smile falls.

She doesn't know.

Xxx

If you asked anyone that knew them, they'd say with pride that it was obvious that Puck and Quinn would end up together.

If you asked them why or how they even worked, not one of them could answer you.

Xxx

He expected to feel sad. He expected to feel totally broken over breaking up with her.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he actually feels. In the beginning, there was anger. Blind, volatile anger. And he wishes he could have appreciated it because now it's gone. It's all gone.

He feels numb and he hates it but he can't bring himself to care. His mom tells him _you must watch too many zombie movies, you're starting to act like one!_ But it isn't funny. It's true.

School starts and he walks in, holding a glare in place. If he drops it, who knows what would shine through? Under classmen cower under his gaze, and for a moment he feels powerful, dangerous, but he can't expect it to last for long. Because she isn't the type to miss school because of relationship troubles. Not now and not ever.

Sure enough, the second he walks into glee she's there talking to Mercedes, hair tied up tightly like it always is when she's stressed out. He feels a flash of guilt because of course it's his fault; he screws up everything he touches. He's worse than freaking Midas. That guy left behind a trail of gold. Puck's leaving behind destruction.

Mr. Schue starts talking but Puck is tuning him out completely, trying to figure out how he screwed up so royally. He should either be happy or sad right now. Quinn's gone. If he never really loved her, he should feel free. If he did, he should be totally torn up.

If only it were that simple.

Xxx

He leaves without saying a single word to her, hands shoved deep into his pockets and a scowl firmly in place.

He's certain he imagined the ghost of a sigh that reached his ears as he passed through the doorway.

Xxx

He _hates_ this, the constant worry and confusion and self-loathing because nothing he can do will ever be good enough for her. He hates that he's holding her back, and he hates that he won't let her go. (He knows he will, eventually. Keeping her has never been an option).

He pushes away every single thing that has the potential to bring him happiness.

It's ironic, then, he thinks, that his whole life is spent in the pursuit of it.

Xxx

She _hates_ this, the constant sadness and longing and doubt that even after everything he's ever said he never really loved her after all. It wouldn't surprise her.

This love, it's made her bitter. She's hardened. She's also weaker than she's ever been.

It's ironic, she thinks, that once she's finally back on top the only thing she wants is to climb back down to a time where she had _him_.

Xxx

When she gets into Georgetown, she smiles so brightly it hurts.

It only takes a minute for her to realize how bittersweet it is.

Xxx

He figures he'll just go to community college when the time comes. It's not like his grades have given him any other option, anyways.

He finds himself wishing he'd attended class more than three times a week. It's the first time he's ever wanted something more. It's the first time he's ever yearned for a future.

Xxx

_Quinn Fabray _is going to Georgetown!

He likes it, along with twenty-six other people.

He also hates it, every word. When he feels tears start to blur the edges of the page he tells himself he has a headache and pops an Advil.

Xxx

The day before she's set to leave, she finds Puck at her door, guitar in hand.

"I'm not gonna sing to you," he tells her quickly, seeing her gaze. "I just wanted to say bye, I guess."

"I'll miss you," she says as she lets him step inside, bouncing on her toes awkwardly. He finally perches on the couch that's so starched it seems sharp. He doesn't belong here.

Not for the first time, she wonders if _she_ does.

"Stay." The word is too loud in the stillness of the empty house. He rushes forward, words tripping over each other. "I have it all planned out, I have a job besides the pool cleaning business and we could get an apartment. Or I'll go with you, I don't care. Just please don't leave again. I'd never forgive myself."

"I can't," she replies, tears pooling in her eyes and marring her voice, "I can't. I wish I could, Puck, but I can't live with you. Neither of us is ready for that."

And she knows that he knows; she knows it's tearing him apart. But she can't let him keep living in this fairytale where he swoops in and saves her, because that's not real. It's all a lie.

Maybe she has to reevaluate her own thoughts, too.

"Please," he tries again, eyes wide and frantic, reality finally setting in that, no, they won't be able to work through all of their baggage. No, they won't ride off together into the freaking sunset. Doesn't he get it? She can't _do_ this, she can't keep letting her life revolve around someone who she loves too much and doesn't know nearly well enough.

"I can't _do _this," she finally spits, "I'm leaving tomorrow and we'll probably never even see each other again. Please don't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"I'll miss you," he echoes.

"I'll miss you too." She's crying now, tears running silently down her cheeks, but she can't look up. She won't.

"Love you." It isn't even complete.

"Love you, too." She says it so quietly it's barely a whisper. "I think you should go."

They don't hug, or kiss, or embrace one last time. He just nods, footsteps padding on her stiff, new carpet, guitar still slung haphazardly over his back as he walks to his car. For both of their sakes, she really hopes that she'll never see him again. That this can be just a chapter in her life that's ended.

Her heart begs to differ.

Xxx

It doesn't surprise her when he shows up at her doorstep, one year later, with nothing but the clothes on his back and his usual cocky smile. (It shakes. He doesn't think she notices, but she's always been more observant than anyone gave her credit for.)

"What are you doing here?" It's the logical first question, so she asks it, trying to stop her heart from pounding and her hands from shaking. It isn't like he never left, but it's close. Too close for comfort.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm being romantic and stuff." He shifts a little bit awkwardly, but his grin stops wavering.

She laughs, ice momentarily broken. But that's how it's always been for them. They can't just sit back and throw around casual I love you's because they're different. They're always moving too fast, emotions leaving no time for their minds to catch up, but at the same time it isn't nearly fast enough.

That night they talk, him telling her that her hair makes her look like a princess fairy and her saying that his Mohawk makes him look like a delinquent (I kind of _am_ a delinquent).

They laugh and toss insults and even sing a little bit, and at the end of the night she knows she's fallen in love all over again. She doesn't know how long it will last. She can't honestly say she cares.

They'll take what they can get.

**Please review! :)**


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